Lazy Days
by FearandLoathingXIX
Summary: Lazy days with Sherlock were like most people's lazy days. Well, sort of.


I wasn't intending to post anything I've written for _Sherlock _on here, but my LJ looks like junk so I'd rather it here than there.

This fic is completely inspired by and based on a fanart drawn by Reapersun on her ridiculously awesome and Sherlock-heavy tumblr. Because it is so wholly drawn from her work, I felt like I had to put it up _somewhere _so if the original artist cared at all they'd be able to read what their arts had produced.

(This is the post with the pic reapersun (dot) tumblr (dot) com/post/10437015960/i-feel-like-ive-drawn-this-couch-more-often-than)

* * *

><p>Lazy days with Sherlock were, surprisingly enough, like most people's lazy days. Well, more or less. When there was wretchedly, hatefully, nothing to do, and John's flatmate was gradually abducted and replaced with an apathetic sulk-machine, it was enough to hope Sherlock would bother with wearing <em>any<em> clothes, let alone ones suitable for going outside in.

Pyjamas, John had learned, were in fact a blessing, because having Sherlock traipse around the flat naked underneath a duvet – like some kind of caterpillar in a goose-down chrysalis –was both weird and distracting.

He also suspected that not everyone's lazy days involved an increased risk of being either intentionally or unintentionally poisoned as part of chemicals research. Mostly Sherlock didn't do it on purpose, at least, not after John had started switching their mugs of tea around. However, it was still preferable to having the kitchen turned into a human chop shop, because regardless of how much disinfectant you used, it was difficult to make sandwiches on a counter that once hosted an entire small intestine, _diced_, with an easy mind.

In fact, maybe lazy days with Sherlock only seemed normal in comparison to everything else – the more likely option, and probably proving that John had long-since lost any comprehension of what normality was meant to be. When a good day started with a strange or puzzling crime, and eccentric serial-killings constituted Christmas come early, it _was_ a relief to pad downstairs on a Wednesday, in what could only tenuously be called the morning, and find Sherlock studying pictures of dead people.

"Mornin'," mumbled John drowsily, socks almost silent against the floor as he sloped downstairs and through the kitchen, picking up a tea on the way. Sherlock said nothing, but it wouldn't be like him to respond to pointless time of day platitudes anyway; he carried on poring over his photographs. "Dead people," John remarked, glancing over as he plodded to the sofa and sank down in one corner, setting his mug on the floor and stretching out his legs. "Lovely."

Sherlock was curled up in the middle of the sofa, a worn t-shirt and tracksuit bottoms on, pictures strewn around him erratically. John's arrival seemed to be of more interest than corpses – which was a compliment really – as he gathered them up and stuck them behind one of the sofa cushions for safe keeping. On days when lunch was the most significant activity of the day, the rest being wasted away inside an approximately two-metre wide circle, small actions became big ones.

When there was a case on and they were rushed off their feet – not to mention half-mad on a lack of sleep, food or being able to walk down the street without being chased – there was no time to be bothered with the little things. They simply didn't have the luxury to notice one another very much, outside of what was going on right at that moment.

So when the rush had passed, and before boredom ate away whatever amenable character there was to Sherlock, they were quite content to waste away the hours in pyjamas, pretending to look for something on tv and not getting on with very much at all. For the first half of the day at least.

Not having work used to distress Sherlock from the second a case ended, but with John and 221b had come a small window in which he didn't mind being unoccupied, could sit for a while without a specific problem in mind and find he was reasonably content. Of course, if given a chance he would leap at any opportunity for a case, but lacking one wasn't the bore it used to be. Maybe he was getting old, maybe he just had other sources of entertainment.

Although he was constantly watching and observing, his flatmate being no exception, when they were having days like this – John sprawled half way off the sofa onto the floor, arms splayed out as if he were upturned on his back, like a beetle – Sherlock saw things that told him nothing, but still wanted for notice. Like the line of hair as it picked up from John's navel, visible from where his top had ridden up and down under the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms. It didn't reveal anything other than the fact that he had and did not remove such body hair, but Sherlock still found himself looking.

Eventually that became dull, so he reached out with one hand, keeping the other tucked tightly around him, and inquisitively traced a finger along. On some occasions John might have jumped, questioning what the hell he thought he was doing and since when had this sort of thing been all right between them, but on a sleepy Wednesday – a lazy day, a not-bothered and not-doing-anything day – all he did was flick his eyes up to Sherlock's for a moment, heavy under his drooping eyelids, and then let them flit closed again, perfectly content to doze and be idly caressed. He couldn't be bothered to fuss.

Sherlock got bolder, spreading his fingertips a little and feeling the flat of John's stomach – slightly soft, but good for his age. John did not seem bothered one bit, and when Sherlock wriggled closer, he only sprawled more, sliding down until he was more on his back than sitting up, half-asleep and smiling in an irritatingly self-satisfactory way.

Like he _knew_ that he could lie around in his pyjamas all afternoon – insisting on watching shit telly, living on tea and toast and making stupid remarks about anything Sherlock said – and he would still be wanted, still be missed if he were not there. He was the thing that made 221b home; him and Mrs. Hudson. Without them it was just a building.

Sherlock's hand stopped, and John's eyes lifted a little, peering up at him, half-curious but still drowsy, smirking through both. He lacked the obsessive drive that motivated Sherlock through cases without food or sleep, so when a fast one finished, it was standard procedure for him to spend the next day engaged in one continuous nap. As a former soldier, he'd learned to relax where and when he could – you never knew when the next battle was, so time to cut loose was taken very seriously.

This meant John would loaf around in sweats, pay no attention to his hygiene, and simply enjoyed being at rest; it was coincidentally the best time to ask him for things or break bad news.

Then without notice, Sherlock leaned over to press his lips against John's – a comforting, familiar feeling; if there was a reason for the gesture, it was not directly obvious. Though John didn't move, leaving his limbs scattered and idle, he kissed back willingly. It was soft and light at first, no more than a peck, a simple contact of soft, sensitive skin pressed together. But it led to more. Every slight move was magnified; the feeling of Sherlock's feet tucked under John's legs, almost possessive, the closeness of their positions, the lack of tension. They were so at ease, so accommodated, that it all felt natural.

The weight of Sherlock's hand on his stomach increased, leaning farther as he twisted around to kiss closer, and as the contract drew out, John at last picked up a hand to rest contemplatively against the side of Sherlock's face, his fingers disappearing into dark hair. He very gently, made the slightest pulling gesture to draw him in, and was responded to; Sherlock's hand slipped higher up John's torso, taking up his top with it.

They slipped into everything on days like this – there was no pouncing or being swept away – a little touch led to something more, and it was easier to let lips part and tongues gently, almost inquisitively roll together, than it was to stop and go back to doing nothing. John brought up his other hand, gripping Sherlock's arm, fingers wrapped around firm bicep.

It didn't go any further, not now, at least – maybe later they would pick up where they left off – but for the mean time they simply came apart, their quiet, sedentary breath almost synchronised.

"What was all that about?" John questioned sardonically, a smile on his still-damp lips. Sherlock met his eyes, sharp and intense, narrowing slightly.

"Nothing," he answered, "what's it _ever _about?" His hand was still deeply up John's shirt, and didn't seem to be intent on moving any time soon; John let his arms drop down again, loose as a ragdoll, and he stretched, straightening out his legs and arching up against Sherlock's hand, taut and firm for a moment before he collapsed back into a pile of mush.

"Mmm, okay," he murmured uninterestedly. It was easier not to question why Sherlock did most of the things he did, and days like this in particular were not for pondering such mysteries. He was comfortable, Sherlock was warm – not to mention quite a good kisser – and there was nothing at all to do. At least, until Sherlock got bored and lost his temper, or another case came along. So John would enjoy it while it lasted.

* * *

><p>I have a very, very complex relationship with how I feel about John and Sherlock. Straight up slash doesn't work for me, but I won't waste another thousand words trying to explain what even <em>I<em> don't get. If I post any more of my Sherlock fics they might go a little further in explaining it.

Anyway, I'd be interested to hear what any readers think, so if you actually read this far and have an opinion about things, do leave a review.


End file.
